


Soon We Will Reclaim the Earth

by ionsquare



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Historical References, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionsquare/pseuds/ionsquare
Summary: A story one-hundred and fifty years in the making.One-hundred and fifty years of mutual pining.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 30
Kudos: 178





	Soon We Will Reclaim the Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from _Haïti_ by Arcade Fire. It was on repeat for _hours_.

Nicolò inhales a mouthful of sand when he gasps back to life. He rolls over staring up at the big blue sky above him, marveling at the beauty of it amongst the desolation around him. He recites his mantra to himself, a murmur of a prayer: _My name is Nicolò di Genova. It is the year of our Lord 1098. I fought in a months-long siege of Antioch, and am now in the port city of Yafa, fighting a man who will not die. Just as I will not die._

_I am very tired._

He sits up and there’s a shadowy figure in the distance. 

Before the knife flying at him pierces his throat, Nicolò’s only thought is--

_How many times is it now?_

**~*~**

Yusuf waits patiently.

His only focus is on the man who, like him, will not die.

The man sits up slowly, and for a moment, Yusuf is struck by the way the sunlight catches the color of his hair. The knife flies out of his hand without a second thought, and Yusuf is stomping towards the man’s, once again, lifeless body.

Yusuf drops to his knees beside the man, studying his face. His finger traces the shape of his crooked nose, the blood caked in his nostrils is a stark contrast to the paleness of the man’s face. The man wakes up violently, gasping and gulping for air, probably choking on spit and blood clogging his throat and Yusuf reaches for his knife pushing out of the man’s throat.

But the man grabs it first, stabbing Yusuf in the heart. 

Yusuf stares at his knife sticking out of his chest, his fingers wrapped around the man’s wrist. The man says something Yusuf doesn’t understand and for some reason it makes him laugh.

“You are not a mouse,” Yusuf whispers, falling on his back, still laughing.

The man looms above him shouting in a language Yusuf does not understand, but at least he isn’t alone when he dies again.

**~*~**

Nicolò shouts at him over and over, but the infuriating man just laughs.

“You insufferable bastard!” Nicolò yells at him, pushing the knife in deeper.

Nicolò pants heavily as he watches the man under him die, and he feels his heart tighten strangely.

“What did you say?” Nicolò asks him. “Why is your laugh…” Nicolò swallows. “Why is it a… a nice sound?” He’s confused and surprised at himself for this thought. 

Nicolò touches the man’s mouth. Nothing.

“Wake up, bastard. Wake up so I may hear you laugh again…”

Nicolò decides to leave before the man wakes up, pulling the knife out the man’s chest. He wipes it off on the man’s clothes, keeping a close eye to make sure he does not wake up. 

Nicolò tucks the knife down inside his boot.

“If you want it back, come and find me,” Nicolò tells him. 

**~*~**

_My name is Nicolò di Genova. It is the year of our Lord 1144. I am in a city named Edessa, and I had my head bashed in by a rock._

_I am very tired._

Nicolò strips himself of all his clothes, walking into a river until his feet begin to float, letting his eyes close as he lifts his face to the sun.

“I am very tired,” he says to himself.

There’s a loud whistling sound that has Nicolò twisting around in the water.

A familiar figure waves at him and Nicolò curses loudly. It has been, if he’s been counting correctly, forty-five years since he’s seen the man, and seeing him so suddenly makes Nicolò angry. 

Frustrated.

Grateful?

The man strips and Nicolò looks away, face burning in embarrassment. He greets Nicolò with a hello, in Genoese, and Nicolò stares at him.

“You speak Genoese, yes?” The man asks.

Nicolò does not answer him. 

The man smiles, sinking into the water until half his face is hidden, popping back up quickly to spit water in Nicolò’s face.

Nicolò curses at him, speaking so quickly he barely comprehends what he’s saying to the insufferable man. He smacks at the water so that it splashes him right in the face.

And the man simply laughs.

Nicolò goes quiet at the sound, trying to move away.

“My name is Yusuf.” He places a hand to his chest. “Yusuf.” He offers a tentative smile.

Nicolò looks away, turning his back to him, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Do you want to kill me?”

Nicolò keeps his eyes shut.

“What did you say?” Nicolò asks softly.

“Do you want to--”

“No.” Nicolò cuts him off, turning around, treading water to keep his distance. “When I stabbed you in the heart.”

Yusuf tilts his head at him.

“What did you say!” Nicolò shouts at him.

Yusuf touches the spot where the knife, his knife, pierced his heart.

“You are not a mouse.”

Nicolò looks at anything but the man’s face. _Yusuf_ , he thinks to himself. He starts swimming back to shore, feet no longer floating as he splashes out the water. _Yusuf_ , he thinks to himself again, looking over his shoulder.

Yusuf walks out of the water, but he doesn’t come any closer.

Nicolò bends down to pull the knife out of his boot, throwing it with perfect, deadly aim.

Yusuf catches it before it hits its mark, slowly lifting his gaze.

“So, that is where my knife went.” Yusuf chuckles, walking towards him. “I think I deserve to know your name now, yes?”

Nicolò pulls on his pants, tying them off. Yusuf is standing in front of him now, twirling the knife delicately back and forth through his fingers. Nicolò tries to ignore how very naked Yusuf _still_ is, and he might glance down, but he looks back up quickly as if God caught him staring.

“Nicolò,” he murmurs.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf repeats.

The way his name fits in Yusuf’s mouth unsettles Nicolò.

“I am going,” Nicolò says, gathering up the rest of his clothes and his sword. “Do not follow me,” Nicolò pauses. “Yusuf, do not follow me.”

Yusuf flips the knife, holding the handle out to Nicolò.

“What is this? I give back.”

Yusuf puts it into Nicolò’s palm, his other hand covering the top of Nicolò’s hand. Nicolò grips the handle and for a moment he thinks of sticking it in Yusuf’s gut.

“I will find you again,” Yusuf says. “You are not a mouse.”

Nicolò’s brow furrows. 

“That was not Genoese.”

“My language. My secret.” Yusuf regards him closely, the crooked curve of Nicolò’s nose, and the way it felt under his finger. “You have no notion of what your beauty does to me.”

“Speak in Genoese. What do you say?”

“I counted each minute, each hour of every day for the last forty-five years.”

Nicolò grows more and more frustrated.

“What do you say!”

“Your God will not permit me to kiss you, but I would still lack the courage to do it.”

Nicolò shakes his head, cursing at him.

“I have the courage to pick up arms against men and fight. I had the courage to kill you over and over, yet I am weak gazing upon you right now. No courage in me to kiss you defiantly in the face of your God, for all to see.”

Nicolò scoffs.

“If you will not speak so that I may answer then we are done here.”

“We shall find one another again, Nicolò,” Yusuf promises him.

Nicolò understands those words, and he carries them in his heart away from prying eyes.

**~*~**

Jerusalem sunrises are a sight to behold, and Nicolò wonders if these holy wars can stop long enough for them to be better appreciated.

_My name is Nicolò di Genova. It is the year of our Lord 1153, and Ascalon has been taken._

He stops when the words get caught in his throat, watching the sun crest on the horizon.

_I think of You often. Your God is not my God, but I pray you are alive._

“Be alive, Yusuf,” Nicolò whispers into the wind.

Miles and miles away, Yusuf stops sketching. A soft breeze tickles his face and he looks up only to realize the sun is finally rising.

“Good morning, Nicolò.” Yusuf smiles. He looks back down at the picture of Nicolò he’d been sketching all night, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“Stay alive for me.”

**~*~**

Nicolò’s sword falls from his hand and he slowly sinks to his knees. He is going to die and return, but for now, he revels in the sensation of his blood freely flowing. He watches it puddle into the dirt, and suddenly there are warm, rough hands on his face.

“Nicolò!” Yusuf cries. “Nicolò, open your eyes!”

He smiles at the sound of his voice. 

“Yusuf,” his slurs, eyes fluttering open. “My name… is Nicolò di Genova…” He winces at the excruciating pain taking hold of his body. “It is the year of our Lord… twelve-hundred and four…”

Yusuf continues to hold Nicolò’s face, and oh, it is a wonderful thing, he thinks.

“Constantinople has been…”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf croaks. “What are you saying?”

Was he not speaking for Yusuf to understand? This death is so slow, and Nicolò is very tired.

“Nicolò, wake up!”

Nicolò startles and his eyes fly open.

“Yusuf.” He feels himself smile. “I dreamt of you. All my… all my dreams are you. I do not let my God see them. He does not deserve to know you. In my… dreams…”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf cries, the desperation in his voice surprising even him. “I cannot understand your words, dear Nicolò.”

“In my dreams you are mine,” Nicolò whispers before dying. Right in Yusuf’s arms.

He expects to be alone when he wakes up, but Nicolò’s eyes open and instead of a sky, it’s Yusuf’s dark eyes. Yusuf is tracing the shape of his nose, his mouth, and Nicolò feels precious under these gentle caresses.

“You are here,” Nicolò rasps.

Yusuf gently cups the side of his neck. 

“I am here,” Yusuf tells him. 

“I am very tired, Yusuf.” Nicolò sighs heavily. “I will return to you in my dreams.”

Nicolò thinks he feels lips touch his forehead, but it is only a dream.

**~*~**

Ten years after the sack of Constantinople, Nicolò and Yusuf begin traveling together. Yusuf finds him in Egypt on a hot, sunny day after his morning tea and prayers.

Nicolò brings Yusuf back to his house far outside the city. He puts together a plate of food for them, watching Yusuf as he slowly makes himself comfortable in Nicolò’s space. He sets down a plate of meat, cheeses, fruits, and a small bowl of honey.

“Thank you for sharing your food with me.”

Nicolò feels his skin get hot at the affection in Yusuf’s voice.

“You are welcome,” he answers in Arabic.

Yusuf stops eating, staring across the table at Nicolò.

“I only know a few phrases for conversation,” Nicolò switches to Genoese. “I wanted to learn in case, well…”

“I can teach you, if you would--”

“I would,” Nicolò says quickly, blushing.

Before Nicolò falls asleep later, he says his prayer.

_My name is Nicolò di Genova._

Yusuf is facing away from Nicolò, but he doesn’t know the man is pretending to be asleep.

_It is the year of our Lord 1227. I ask you, as your humble servant, can you forgive me for the affection I have had for Him for over one-hundred years?_

The fighting continues without them, but Nicolò and Yusuf no longer need or have a reason to fight for a cause that isn’t theirs anymore. They never stay too long in one place, but they enjoy each stop, the food, the people wherever their travels take them. In the mornings, they discuss their dreams of the women, both wondering if they will eventually find them. Maybe the women wondered the same, but neither of them tries to dwell on those thoughts too long.

There are other thoughts to dwell on.

They set up camp outside Damascus.

Yusuf’s eyes linger on Nicolò when they bathe.

Nicolò’s eyes linger on Yusuf when he sketches in the evenings.

Their eyes linger, and linger, and linger, and sometimes on their walks to and from the city, their hands brush. Their fingers linking together. Yusuf tries to hold on but Nicolò pulls away; he always pulls away first. 

But on the rare occasion, Nicolò will link a finger around one of Yusuf’s, holding on tight.

Like the red thread of fate Nicolò has heard tell of.

Two people connected.

Destined to be lovers.

A tangible thread stretching on and on, but never breaking.

Nicolò clings to it, and Yusuf never let’s go.

Yusuf is killed in Tripoli, and Nicolò murders the group of men who stalked them without an ounce of regret.

They’re both drenched in blood, and Yusuf’s body is badly beaten and bruised. Before Yusuf dies, he asks Nicolò for last rites. 

“I can’t… I can’t do that, Yusuf.”

“Share with me your prayer, dear one. Allow me peace of mind.”

“Promise me you will return.”

Yusuf smiles, and it is a blinding, beautiful thing, Nicolò thinks, holding Yusuf in his arms.

“I will return. I always return, just as you return to me. Your prayer, Nicolò.”

“My name is Nicolò di Genova,” Nicolò’s voice cracks, cupping Yusuf’s bloody cheek. “It is the year - it is still the year of our Lord twelve-hundred and twenty-seven. I am in the city of Tripoli, and I am scared.”

“Do not be scared,” Yusuf says with his dying breath. “You will be with me, and I with you.”

“No, Yusuf, you must stay with me.” Nicolò knows he is dead, but he weeps for him, nonetheless. “Do not go where I can’t follow, my heart.” He holds their hands to his chest, crying harder. “We are bound by fate. Destiny. A red thread of fate, Yusuf. Do not go where I can’t follow.”

Nicolò looks up, shouting at the heavens.

“Do you hear me! If you do not hear me, you will hear me now!” Nicolò presses his lips to Yusuf’s forehead. “I am with you and you are with me. Come back to me, my heart. Come back to me so I may see your smile, hear your voice, feel your hand holding mine once again.”

Yusuf inhales sharply, groaning loudly as his body sings back to life already healing itself, clutching Nicolò’s hand.

Nicolò links their fingers together, squeezing tight, and Yusuf has never felt more alive than in this moment.

He thinks Nicolò is going to kiss him, but then he pulls away at the last second, coming back to his senses. Yusuf wishes to die again.

“Thank you for coming back to me,” Nicolò says.

Yusuf hears the reverence in his voice, looking into his eyes.

“I will always come back to you.”

Nicolò feels the thread between them stretching and going stronger as they make their way to Galilee. 

Yusuf presents him with a pomegranate one evening.

“Thank you, Yusuf. What is the special occasion?” 

Yusuf smiles fondly. “One-hundred and fifty years, my friend. It has been one-hundred and fifty years since meeting you, knowing you, killing you--” _Loving you_ , Yusuf thinks, but can’t bring himself to say it. “Will you bless our food on this special occasion?”

“We do not share the same God, Yusuf.”

“I know this, Nicolò. We respect one another when we are alone with our Gods and our prayers. But right now, I would like you to bless our food.”

Nicolò sighs, turning the fruit over and over in his hands.

“From your beginning, please, Nicolò.”

Nicolò looks at Yusuf across the flames of their evening fire.

“My name is Nicolò di Genova. It is the year of our - it is the year of the Lord twelve-hundred and forty-eight. I am in Galilee, sharing a moment with…Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani.”

Yusuf holds Nicolò’s gaze, yet it feels like he is holding Nicolò’s heart.

“And I am content,” Nicolò finishes.

From Galilee they find themselves in Malta.

Over the next few days, they slowly unclench from all the stress they’ve both been shouldering. They relax more around one another, settling into a comfortable rhythm together. Weary from so much traveling, moving from one city to the next, dreaming of the same two women every single night.

They find peace in Malta.

Nicolò feels the tension building between himself and Yusuf.

It’s a good tension if Nicolò is being honest with himself.

They watch the sunrise on the blue water surrounding them, passing pieces of fruit and bread back and forth. Touches lingering and burning in their wake. In the evenings, when their day of work is done, when Yusuf puts away his sketchbook, Nicolò holds out a hand to him.

Yusuf puts his hand in Nicolò’s, fingers linking together easily, letting Nicolò lead the way.

On a beach in Malta, in their one-hundred and fiftieth year together, Nicolò prays for a kiss.

Yusuf is watching Nicolò watch the sun setting. Watching Nicolò’s lips move in a silent prayer.

“Share your prayer with me, Nicolò.”

Nicolò closes his eyes, trembling.

Yusuf moves to stand in front of Nicolò, cupping his face.

“Give me your prayer, dear one,” Yusuf asks in Arabic.

Nicolò clutches one of Yusuf’s hands, pressing his face into his palm.

“My name is Nicolò di Genova,” he starts, opening his eyes. “It is the year of the Lord twelve-hundred and forty-eight. I am standing on a beach in Malta, looking at Him, and I am terrified.”

Yusuf kisses Nicolò’s forehead, dragging his nose down Nicolò’s.

“I am standing before you, God. My God. I am terrified because I want--” 

“What do you want, my most beloved?” Yusuf asks.

Nicolò inhales a ragged breath, crying now.

“I want him to kiss me like I am the only one he will want to kiss for the rest of our lives.”

Nicolò has barely finished his request before finally, _finally_ Yusuf’s mouth descends upon his own. It’s a mere press of lips at first, but Yusuf gently coaxes his mouth open and Nicolò gives in. Nicolò makes a noise and Yusuf kisses him harder, gripping the back of his neck while Nicolò’s arms drape around Yusuf’s neck.

The kissing doesn’t stop for a long time. Their hands touch one another everywhere they feel skin, and the only thing Nicolò is sure of is Yusuf’s mouth. His tongue. Nicolò stops briefly to look at Yusuf’s swollen mouth, flushed red and puckered, and Nicolò’s thumb brushes across his bottom lip. Yusuf nips his thumb, chasing Nicolò’s mouth for another kiss, and another, and another.

“I am yours,” Nicolò says through tears.

“And you are mine,” Yusuf promises, kissing his tears.

“What did you say in Edessa?” Nicolò’s voice trembles; his entire body is trembling. He cannot recall the last time he felt like this.

Yusuf murmurs sweet things to Nicolò in Arabic, kissing him so gently.

“That your God would not permit me to kiss you. That I lacked the courage to do it when I had all the courage in the world to kill men I did not know. To kill you.”

Nicolò clings to him, pressing his forehead to Yusuf’s.

“What were your dying words in Constantinople?” 

Nicolò is still teary-eyed, but he laughs, looking in Yusuf’s eyes. He holds Yusuf’s face in his hands and Yusuf is looking at him with so much love. So much reverence. 

“All my dreams are of you.” Nicolò’s thumbs stroke Yusuf’s cheekbones. “That my God did not deserve to see you in my dreams.” Nicolò touches his lips to Yusuf’s, speaking the declaration of love to his lips. “In my dreams you are _mine_ ,” Nicolò emphasizes the last word with a kiss.

Yusuf sighs against Nicolò’s mouth, wrapping an arm around him. His mouth leaves kisses down Nicolò’s jaw, the slope of his neck, along his collarbone. Nicolò lets him, and Yusuf doesn’t stop until his face is pressed into the crook of his neck, holding him as tight as he can.

“Share a prayer with me, Yusuf.” Nicolò cards his fingers through Yusuf’s curls, tugging gently, but with conviction. “Give me a prayer.”

Yusuf puts his hands to Nicolò’s shoulders, raising them upward, and then brings his right hand over his left hand letting them rest against his chest.

“Allah Akbar,” Yusuf says to Nicolò.

Nicolò listens closely.

“Allah forgive me for this moment is not for you and me. Right now, I give my prayer to the man before me.”

Yusuf puts his hands back on Nicolò’s shoulders, his forehead touching Nicolò’s.

Nicolò lets his hands rest on Yusuf’s shoulders too.

“I am Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani.” Yusuf looks into Nicolò’s eyes. “The year is twelve-hundred and forty-eight, and Allah as my witness, which is not something my people say often--”

Nicolò laughs, letting a hand touch Yusuf’s cheek.

Yusuf turns his face to place a soft, sweet kiss on Nicolò’s palm, his wrist.

“I love the man before me, and he is the only man I will love until you grant my life complete.”

Nicolò starts to cry again.

Yusuf kisses his tears away.

“Yusuf, I love you too much. I think my heart will burst if it tries to love you more.”

“Being loved by you, Nicolò, is all I need for the rest of my life.

Nicolò wraps his arms around Yusuf, hiding his face and weeping, clinging to Yusuf.

The thread of fate between them feels stronger than ever. An unbreakable bond. A vow of commitment to one another in this life, and the next, because no Gods will keep them apart. If Nicolò has anything to say about it. 

And if they do, Nicolò will go out fighting, loving Yusuf with every single fiber of his being.

**~*~**

_My name is Nicolò di Genova. It is the year of our Lord 2020. I must remind you that if you try to take my most beloved from me, I will fight you with my last, dying breath._

Joe stirs in his sleep, but Nicky kisses his temple, feeling Joe’s arm squeeze him tight, drawing Nicky closer. 

_I am in London with my beloved, and I love him more than I could ever really express. My heart still feels like it will burst, just as it wanted to that day in Malta._

“Quiet, Nicky,” Joe mumbles. “You think too much, my heart.”

“I think of you.” Nicky presses closer, nosing at Joe’s curls. “Only you, my beloved.”

Joe kisses Nicky breathless, and Nicky melts further into his touch.

“No more prayers, dear one. Come find me in my dreams.”

And Nicky will always follow where Joe goes, holding on tight to their thread.

Never letting go.

**Author's Note:**

> I had another idea in mind for my first Joe/Nicky fic, and maybe I'll still write it, but this is what you get. For now. I started writing this at midnight and it took shape all on its own.
> 
> All historical references and cities are real, and were quickly researched. FYI, Yafa is also spelled Jaffa. I didn't want to make things too difficult for myself trying to get things exactly right, that's also why I tell you what they're speaking because having to translate languages that are ancient or no longer exist - my mind is overwhelmed at the thought. LOL I'm not a religious person, but I tried to be respectful of the religions here because they're very real. If something isn't right please let me know! I truly mean no offense. ✊
> 
>  **Note Added 8/27:** [This is a very important post](https://historic-old-guard-lover.tumblr.com/post/626898743738925056/) that I really wanted to share here because in my fic I don't say that Joe is Arabic, he's just speaking it. Between Joe and Nicky I assume they know a wide variety of languages, and even in the movie, Joe primarily speaks Italian. Definitely read the linked article about Maghreb in the post; I did before writing this. I'm white and as a fandom writer it's my responsibility to be accurate, especially with this, but I encourage anyone to correct me when I'm wrong.
> 
> I say not canon compliant because I still haven't read the comics yet! But thanks to my friend CJ for clarifying the correct spelling of Nicolò because I've seen it so many ways and I wanted to be sure.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ionsquare! Say hello! (❁´◡`❁)
> 
> My upmost thanks and gratitude to you, the reader, for reading and enjoying.


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